Dolphins in the English Channel

Crossing the English Channel is widely regarded as the pinnacle of open water swimming. More people have climbed Mt. Everest than have successfully swum between England and France. I would argue that swimming from the Farralon Islands to San Francisco is a more dangerous, arduous, and rare endeavor. However, there's no question that a solo swim across what the French call "La Manche" is a crowning achievement.

The shortest distance between England and Europe is across the Dover Strait. This is a narrow band of water that forms an hourglass pinch in the English Channel. The bulk of cross-channel swims start at Shakespeare beach, just southwest of Dover Harbor since France has disallowed starts from their shores. The most favorable landfall would then be at Cap Gris Nez in France, a rocky promontory south of Calais, which pokes its grey nose towards England. A straight line from Shakespeare Beach to Cap Gris Nez is 18.15 nautical miles. As with most measures, international standards bodies have been tweaking the various definitions but, as of 1929, a nautical mile is the equivalent of 1.15 statute miles, making it 20.89 miles or 33,123.75 meters across for us landlubbers.

Captain Matthew Webb was the first English Channel swimmer. He succeeded using breaststroke in 1875 with a time of twenty-one hours and forty-five minutes. The fastest verified swim crossing is just under seven hours in 2007, a record held by a Bulgarian, Petar Stoychev. Michael Phelps set a world record in the 200 meter freestyle at the Beijing Olympics in 2008 with a time of slightly less than one minute and forty-three seconds. If Mr. Phelps could string one hundred sixty-six of these performances together in open water, he could cross the English Channel in about four and three-quarter hours.


Twenty-five Dolphins have completed this solo swim. Toufie Blaik was the first to succeed when he crossed in 16 hours and 5 minutes in 1953. Twenty-two years later, in 1985, Suzanne Heim became the second Dolphin to accomplish this feat in 10 hours and 11 minutes. The next year, she improved her time to 10 hours and 2 minutes. In 1990, John Davies bested this by one minute, a mark of which he was extraordinarily proud. In 2004, Si Bunting lowered the Dolphin record to 9 hours and 44 minutes. The latest fastest time is 8 hours and 33 minutes, swum by Laurin Weisenthal in 2009. The oldest swimmer was Peter Urrea when he crossed in 1996 at the age of fifty-six.

A large plaque in the Staib Room of the club honors all the members who made this swim. Unlike the Polar Bear plaque, there is more than enough room for future English Channel swimmers. Ninety-five open spaces await tomorrow's successful aspirants. At the current rate, Dolphins may not fill all the available spaces until the next century.

The Victorious Bull

Just like the water in the bay, the population of men sitting in the sauna at any one time ebbs and flows. To some extent, these variations are predictable. On this particular morning, however, several more men than usual were warming themselves after a morning swim and chatting away amiably. During a lull in the hubbub, Joe Mannion declared, "The best tapas I've ever eaten were in Spain." The air was instantly peppered with shouts of, "The best sushi I ever had was in Japan!" "The best kimchi I ever had was in Korea!" The best borscht I ever had was in the Ukraine!"

Eventually, we exhausted our knowledge of local dishes and their origins. Joe patiently waited for the laughter and jibes to subside, leaned forward in his engaging way, and said, "Well, what I should have said is that I had a tapas dish in Spain that I don't think you can get anywhere else." Having skillfully regained the attention of the sauna inhabitants, he continued. "I was in Madrid and asked the waiter for something special and he said, 'Si señor, something special for you.' When the waiter came back, he put a plate down and said, 'This is huevos del toro.' I knew just enough Spanish to know that he had said these were 'eggs of the bull' so I told him they seemed very small for bull eggs. They were no bigger than golf balls. The waiter smiled and said, 'Aveces, señor, el toro gana,' and walked away."

A chuckle burbled among a couple of men as their various competencies in Spanish kicked in. Fortunately, Ivan Balarin, a native of Peru was there to translate, "Sometimes, the bull wins."

We erupted in guffaws laced with winces. Ivan began waving his arms in a "slow down" motion and said, "No, no, no. I have to tell you. I was participating in a skydiving tournament in Spain and I saw the bull win." By now, we were on edge for another punch line but Ivan was adamant, "No, no. I tell you. I don't like bullfights, but my friend said we have to go. And the bull, first thing, it knocks down three picadore horses. Bang! Bang! Bang! Knocks them right to the ground, man! You never seen anything like it! Then the bull jumps into the stands and starts to charge around. People were running like crazy, man. And there was a cameraman in the stands and he's looking through his video camera and he's looking all over trying the find the bull and the bull comes up behind him where he can't see him and BOOM! The bull knocks the cameraman right into the arena and jumps in after him. Boy! that cameraman really ran for his life. So then, the matador comes in and the bull just charges him and stabs him with his horns. Just KILLS that matador, man! Oh, my gosh. That day the bull won, man!"

Of course, we had to know. Did they let the bull live? Ivan said, "Yes. I think so. Yes. I'm sure they did."

Aveces el toro gana, I guess.

Polar Bear Champions

The perpetual trophy that honors Polar Bear champions since the winter of 1984-1985 was obviously not envisioned to last over twenty years. Perhaps the originator figured that sanity would ultimately prevail and the need for the trophy would fade. Indeed, the trophy case in the Staib Room of the Dolphin Club is littered with "perpetual" trophies that have outlived their usefulness and the memory of why they exist in the first place.

The Polar Bear trophy is not one of these. The brass plates that name the champions and their distance swum once adorned the plaque in regular and symmetrical columns and rows. Not any more. They are tacked in random order onto any available space whether vertical or horizontal. Eventually the plaque must be augmented or replaced, the madness must stop, or the obsessed must go unrecognized. Taken directly from the current haphazard landscape of the trophy and hand-transferred to paper and then to computer, here are the records to date:

I certainly don't expect the madness to stop and it would be a shame to have the obsessed go unrecognized. Perhaps this will be the year that the trophy gets an overhaul.

The Space Between the Ears

Non-bay swimmers regularly ask, "Why do you do it?" News commentators sometimes report on swim events or newsworthy phenomena such as sea lion attacks. When interviewing a top competitor on the beach, this is a question that's almost guaranteed. The broadcasting team back in the studio will collectively shudder and declare, "Those folks are crazy," or "That's not for me."

One way to describe the total experience of swimming in cold water is to compare it to drinking an excessive amount of alcohol. The sequence of sensations is inverted. For people who like their spirits, that first sip is delightful and refreshing. As the drinking continues, a pronounced euphoria settles in. Next comes the stumbling and the mumbling. Then comes the savage headache, the aching muscles, and the lethargic miasma that can last most of a day.

Swimming in the bay on the other hand starts with the pain. When the water is below 50 degrees, wading into the ocean feels like someone has wrapped a huge pair of vice-grip pliers around your shins and is exerting a massive squeeze. Immersing the chest is slamming your torso into a cement wall. When the heads goes into the water, ice cream headaches can ensue.

After five to fifteen minutes, though, the weightless gliding, the natural beauty, the watery caress and a sense of peace settle in. Climbing out on the beach later often includes a little stumbling. The frozen jaw and lips make communication sound like a drunken mumble. Then, with a warm shower and a sit in the sauna, the body reaches a tipping point. Suddenly, you're no longer cold and the feeling is much like that first sip of cold beer on a hot summer day after mowing the lawn. The subsequent euphoria can last well into the afternoon.

Conrad von Blankenburg once told me with great sincerity that the Dolphin Club has saved the lives of many people. I believe him. If it hasn't saved my life, it has certainly made it much richer. Joe Schatz says the club is "an oasis of mental hygiene." The National Geographic's term for what we experience in the bay is, "a wilderness experience in an urban setting." I think of it as pushing a large button labeled "clear and reset" every day. In any case, for many of us, the effort is only partly about physical exertion. It's much more about what happens between the ears.